#ddde

Black coffee, the usual. Bitter. White, like the background of the clock that always rang at five in the morning, not because he needed but out of habit. It had long been since Joel last drove Sarah to school; bought her a car now that she was in college. Black like the dark inside his room, lights turned off earlier than needed, because there was no one else to see to keep them on. White like the faded paint of his porch. He hadn't sat there since the divorce.

Enter a storm of colors: you. Sarah's friend from college.

Joel still remembers the first day he saw you. Pretty young thing, two ponytails for the summer and a floral dress that fluttered too much with the breeze of the Austin night. He should've felt embarrassed, fawning over his daughter's friend, but he made sure to wash that shame away in the pitch black of his room, cock hard and leaking. He didn't bother to clean the mess away, licking it thinking it was yours.

You were a goddamn rainbow. Entered his life like a trainwreck. Two years later, his daughter's bestfriend and his best kept secret. The one who spends half of her time on his house, walking around like you own it.

(He likes to think you do.)

If Joel could pick a color to describe you, he'd choose pink.

Pink.

Like the overly sweet frosting you'd use to decorate your cookies. He'd walk into the kitchen, stealing some, only for Sarah to berate him for the sugar. You'd smile sheepishly, always leaving two trays behind.

Pink.

Like the tongue you'd stick out because he kept bothering you girls, making his daughter groan embarrassed about her overbearing dad. It's girl time, she'd complain, yet you never kicked him out.

Pink.

Like your nails. He loved how they were always the same color. Soft. You always made sure to lightly nudge him during his kitchen raids, your touch electric. So he kept coming back for more; needed your touch like a drug.

Pink.

Like the small dust covering your cheeks when his gaze held a little longer than needed. Something on my face? you'd ask, so sweet and innocent. He'd just chuckle, color darkening a shade.

Pink.

The best part: not the smell, not his daughter's laughter, nor the trays on the fridge. Your underwear. Cotton, he'd guess. The soft material's peak he'd get when you bent to open the oven. Would you ever know he didn't give the old appliance any mantainance so you'd take longer trying to push the door down?

Pink.

Joel could swear your heart was like no other. Shaped like those pink heart-shaped cookies of yours. Coveted in the same color and that saccharine nature of yours that bloomed out of every part of your body. Made you impossible to resist, as one would think of the best dessert there is.

And yet, you don't know. You sweet, pretty, naive little young thing. Walked right into the lion's den, smelling like the perfect goddamn prey.

It's alright, Joel Miller is a patient man. He's just waiting for the right moment to sink his teeth on your tender flesh.

Three knocks at his door. Joel gets up faster than he should. He may not be as young as he used to, but Joel often likes to think there are some things about him that haven't change. Take his senses, for example. Those three knocks: soft but sharp. Decided. Like the person behind the door was determined to fulfill the task they had in mind.

Opens the door and there's you: all sweet smiles and pink cookie batch clutched to your chest. Weren't you always so driven?

"Hi, Mr. Miller" with such familiarity it makes his chest ache. With such sweetness for a random hot Austin day. With such a frail little summer dress he can spot the strawberry pattern of your bra. "Is Sarah here?"

Joel notices how you avoid his eyes, a shy little quirk about you this two years hadn't been able to shed. But he loved that about you. The idea of you intimidated by him hit places a good man shouldn't be going.

Good thing Joel was a bad man, then. A sinner. He wasn't a criminal, but he was the type of man your parents would warn you about. A cautionary tale that smelled like cigarettes, wood, sweat and whiskey.

No responsible father would lust after his daughter's friend. He loved Sarah to death and tried to be the best version of him for her, but goddamn, he just couldn't resist you.

But you're too sweet to notice, the kind of naive that makes men like him weak. Bad men.

"We've been over 'tis, sugar" in that thick drawl of his. "Jus' call me Joel. We familiar 'nough for them Mr. Miller thing"

"Sorry, Mr. Miller" you laugh sheepishly. "Joel it is" and his pants tighten a fraction.

"See? Easy. That better"

"Is Sarah here?" you repeat, a bit louder this time, like he didn't listen the first time, hanging on every little word out of your glossy pink lips. His gaze falls to the container, clutched in your arms. You little jumpy thing. It's your trademark. He feels warm, fuzzy and something more primal.

"C'mon in" before he can stop himself. And you? Pretty and obedient doll do as told. More blood rushes to his tight sweatpants, and Joel wishes you'd glance a bit down his way.

"Sarah?" you ask into the empty house.

Joel grips the doorknob as he closes the door, fists white. If you ask one more time about his daughter, he'll lose it. Nothing personal, he'd rather just have your attention for himself only.

"She ain't here" he drops, no point in lying anymore.

Your turn around, red and confused. "Oh... Well, I'll just leave these here then"

Before you can move, his big hand grabs you by the wrist, tightly.

"You don't need'a rush, sweetheart. What's the matter?" you flush at the nickname. "Ya' don't expect me to eat all 'tis by myself, do ya'? Have a bite with me"

You don't correct him that, technically, the cookies are for him and your bestfriend.

"I'm not sure-" you falter.

His grip doesn't. Joel Miller is persistent, you think. "C'mon, 's bad manners to leave someone's invitation hangin', don't 'cha think?" he presses.

You gulp.

"But I came here for Sarah" you offer, lamely.

Weakly. Not convinced. He smirks, satisfied. You just need a little more pushing.

"Then stay for me"

The way you raise your head up, so quickly a bone snaps in there, is almost comical.

"Easy there, doll. I ain't going anywhere" he chuckles. Why on Earth is the sound so grave and the effect on you so disarming? It's unfair a laugh can be this deep, rich and sultry.

Though, this isn't the first time you've think of Sarah's dad like this. As a menace to your sanity.

The man was attractive. The type of attractive one can tell from the very first moment, choking on your own spit when Sarah introduced him to you. Long curly hair, warm brown eyes and a tanned worn skin that spoke of hard years of work. So did his body: broad shoulders and strong arms. His smell reeked of sweat, ashes and something like wood or leather. Beer on his breath most times, especially on the summer. His soft stomach confirmed his liking for the drink as well. Yes, he was a dream.

But he was also incredibly... intimidating. Joel Miller carried this sort of menacing air to his presence, clinging like a shadow, trailing behind the soft crunch of his worn boots. You often ended up looking at your feet, arm, Sarah even, when he entered the room, unable to meet him in the eye. He stayed, like he knew it got under your skin, reveled on the fact he made your nervous and reduced you to a meek scared little thing. And when he talked to you? His voice alone could subdue you. Just like his laugh: that gruff, husky tone that made your legs wobbly in fear or something else.

It was, maybe, his persistance. Demanding. Insisting. Suffocating.

He seemed the type who wasn't used to a no. Or one who probably just wouldn't allow it. It was on the way he spoke softly yet gave no signs of another option, like right now.

In his dark stare, waiting for you to glance on his direction, almost a dare yet it felt like a trap, one you couldn't fall for: you were sure you wouldn't be able to escape.

You have an idea already of what it would be like as you sit across from him, eyes fixated on the cookie in your hands. Freshly brewed coffee wafts through the air, Joel Miller taking sips with his plump lips.

"S'it good?"

You haven't even touched your mug. He's basically telling you to do so. You place your cookie down and hold it with trembling hands, sip to try even if it's burning.

"It's lacking a little sweet"

He snorts, like he already knew it and was just trying you. "'F course"

The chair creaks as he leaves. When he returns, he appears from behind you, his larger figure practically towering over your smaller sitting form, placing a jar with a loud thud.

"'S honey okay?"

You can't help but smile. "I always use honey"

"Figured"

You take one spoon of honey and mix it. "Am I that easy to read?" without looking at him.

"'M trynna figure that"

You blush under the intensity of his gaze. Take another nervous hot sip, make a face.

"It's still bitter" as you reach for the jar.

"Black coffee" he says, to supply an explanation.

The chair creaks again. He's behind you so fast, you barely register his scent up your nostrils before Joel's leaning forward.

"Lemme help ya'"

His larger hand envelops yours, practically swallowing it, roughness abrassive to your soft skin. He takes your hand and pour two spoons in a tortuous manner that feels longer than it should. He then places the spoon back, his hand leaving yours. It burns-- lingering.

"That's better"

Your throat goes dry. "Better?"

Joel just chuckles, sitting again across from you. But this time it's different: the air feels charged, with an unspoken force that sends shivers down your spine.

"So, Sarah..." you trail off, unsure where to stand or what to say, anything, to fill the asfixiating crushing silence full of uncertainty.

Joel takes another loud sip, clearly unbothered. If you were reaching, you could even say he seemed to be enjoying it.

"Her mamma took 'er out to dinner"

"Oh, I see"

"You wouldn't have known" he offers, lamely.

You bounce your legs on the floor, feet tapping anxiously against the wooden floor. If he notices, he's kind enough to not say anything. You wonder if it's pity or nonchalance. Poor little girl, I just touched her hand and she's a mess.

"No, I wouldn't"

"It was a surprise. She ain't know 'bout it"

He's trying so hard to keep a conversation, you can't help but feel a little guilty. Still, you don't offer much, hands clammy and shaky as you grab another cookie, just to busy yourself.

"'Cause tomorrow's her birthday"

"I know" maybe more cutting than necessary, nerves on edge.

You instantly cringe. That was rude. This poor man is trying to make you feel comfortable, and while he was a bit overbearing, Joel hasn't done anything bad so far. You're anxious and he's making it hard with his imposing cologne and burnt cigarrette smell.

"And what else do you seem to know, sweet girl?"

Your face goes red and the tapping against the board off the charts. He's clearly noticed, hell, heard, now.

"Easy, doll. No need'a be scared" you feel a sudden touch graze your legs, those exposed by the sundress. "Tell me, 'tis big ol' man makin' ya' nervous?"

Your heart stops beating for a moment, your body tensing up, taut muscles making it impossible to react.

"Quit the bouncin', baby" his palm presses against your knee, softly but insisting. "I don't bite" a crooked grin adorns his face, "unless y' wanna"

Your throat goes dry. This is the same man who has opened his door for you, given you a bed to sleep. The father of your bestfriend. How is this even real? Why is he looking at you like he could eat you whole?

Why are you thinking you'd let him?

But you should've seen it coming. Wasn't he clear enough before? His actions were enough for the lack of words.

"C'mon, doll. Cat ate your tongue?" he mocks, like he knows he's got you cornered: he, the cat. You, the mouse.

"N-no, Mr. Mill- Joel, sorry. No, Joel" you ramble, tongue tied as your stomach in knots.

His hand slowly moves up your thigh. You swallow. Dry and hard. A shallow breath escapes past your lips.

"Forget 'bout it, angel. No Joel. From now on, you gotta call me sir. Understood?"

You're about to protest, probably to ask what the hell is going on and how a simple cookie delivery has you with his hands over your thighs under the table.

"I asked somethin', sugar" he chuckles lowly. A drowned gasp falls off your mouth as he digs his fingers into your skin. "Understood?"

"Y-yes"

Joel applies a bit more pressure into his hold. "Just yes? Thought ya' were smarter than that, baby. Don't 'cha know how t' follow summ rules?"

"Yes, sir"

Joel's touch becomes almost light-weight, leaving your thigh where you're sure a bruise will show up in a few days.

He smirks, pleased. "There ya' go. Easy, ain't it?"

You nod, feverishly.

He pats you, almost mockingly, and let's you go. You release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"Yes, easy" you chuckle, nervous. "Sir"

Joel smiles. "Don't let it get to y' head, doll, but I'm gettin' real used to the sound of that"

The chair creaks again, and every bone in your body shivers, body anticipating. He stands above you, were you can see every wrinkle and facial hair of his stubble.

"Y' know" he reaches out. You cower at first, but he's quick to grip you by the chin, and yet, despite the force of his hold, his finger runs smoothly across your lip. "If ya' beg so sweetly, I might just give ya' what 'cha need"

He examines you like he can see right through you, those cold brown eyes looking at you with fascination.

"Upstairs" is all Joel says.

This is how you find yourself in the current situation: on Joel Miller's bedroom, inches away from his bed.

It's ridiculous, really, how you decide to notice, him towering you at the moment, but your eyes take in his room, anyway. You may not know Joel that well, but you decide it's very him. Texan, with the old handmade furniture, the chipped wood and the single horse picture above his bed. A pair boots, forgotten by the night table. An ash tray and a pile of clothes on an old chair, signs of years of leaving in the quiet comfortable solitude. After some time you come to realize he may have built most of the furniture you see.

"Like it?" as if he can read your thoughts.

"It's... nice. Lived in"

"Appreciate your thoughts, darlin', but It's kinda lakin' somethin', don't 'cha think?"

"Oh" you chuckle nervously, "and what can that be?"

"You"

Of course. If his crooked smile and hungry eyes raking you up and down didn't give away enough. A tight knot forms in your stomach.

Joel wets his lips with his tongue. "Now, we're gonna have real fun, you and I"

He waits for you, yet you don't move at all. Joel lets out a tired sigh, probably dissapointed by your lack of cooperation.

"Here doll, lemme help"

His rugged hands get rid of your dress, pulling it over your shaky body.

"We've talked about this" another sigh going past his lips. "S'al'ight. I won't hurt 'cha"

"I-I know that" you hold your tongue. "Sir"

He smiles, eyes darkening with lust as he takes in your body, that lingerie he imagined now under his fingers as he traces the cotton with his thumb.

His starved gaze lingers until it gets under your skin. "Do you?"

You whimper as his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slowly.

"Ain't ya' the prettiest little thing? Knew that the moment ya' walked in" Joel growls, voice thick with want. "And y'gonna look even better naked 'n under me"

He continues the tortuous descent of your strawberry panties, sliding down through your bare legs, the filthy pathetic drowned out noises from your lips against the softness of your skin and the sweetness of the pattern of your underwear making blood rush to his already hard cock.

Joel's eyes shimmer with a hunger so raw, it makes your heart race, heat creeping up your neck.

"Y' like the idea, sweet girl?" he smirks. "'M gonna explore every inch of this sweet sweet body of y'rs and take ma' time, 'cause finally" he inches closer to your neck, breathing in your scent before licking his lips wickedly, "y'r mine"

His hot breath fans over your flushed skin, beard scratching, marking you. Your core throbs involuntarily, pulsing stopping like a swallowed breath when his fingers graze your entrance.

"S'all wet down'ere" Joel chuckles with amusement. "S' much for sayin' ya' don't want me. Don't be shy, angel. I think y' don't wanna admit it, but you do like the idea" his words accompanied by a low, sinful purr, almost threatening.

"N-no" you whimper, "please-"

His lips press firmly together as if irritated. Your walls clench when he removes his finger from your core.

"Sir"

"Please, sir" you whimper.

Joel just chuckles, like making fun of you. He raises his fingers, the one he rubbed you dangerously close to his lips, taunting. As if you were spellbound, you find it impossible to tear your eyes away as it dissappears inside his mouth. He licks it, obscenely, your lips parted.

"Look at that. Sweet as y'r cookies"

His hands now slide down your ass, his calloused digits digging into the skin, bruising, as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel his throbbing, thick length pressing against your stomach.

"Don't be ashamed, sweetheart" Joel growls, the rumble so deep it vibrates through your body. "I just wanna hear ya' say how badly ya' want 'tis"

It's like your mouth's gone dry. He throws your body against the bed, your muscles going taut with fear. Maybe anticipation. Joel then leans over you, hovering like he's trying to cage you under his weight. You look at the night table, eyes lingering on the burnt cigarrettes, sleeping dead on the ashtray, holding onto anything, all to avoid looking into that gaze which threatened to consume you.

"What's wrong, baby?" he asks through a low tone, his erratic breath ghosting over you.

It's like a wave of clarity heats you. There, laying over the old wood, another portrait: curly loose hair, toothy grin, a purple t-shirt with a rainbow, and that unmistakable eyes that hadn't changed a bit.

"Sarah" you whisper.

The shame, guilt and fear hit you all at once. The hesitation from before becomes nausea over the idea of letting your bestfriend's father so close to you, let alone being in bed with him.

"W-we can't, Jo- sir" you bite your lip, anxiously chewing. "We can't-"

He follows your gaze, landing on the picture. He sighs softly, hand reaching out to place the frame down.

"Don't worry, doll. She don't need'a find out 'bout what we'll do"

"It's not right-"

"I think y'r body's not agreein' with 'cha, baby. So don't give me that crap"

You close your eyes, body ridig. You hear him click his tongue, then let out a heavy sigh. Next, his fingers caress your cheek softly as he removes some loose strands from your face. You open your eyes, only to find him smirking.

"Sarah won't find out, I give ya' my word 'bout it. But you gotta keep the end of y'r bargain, sweetheart" then, in a low voice, borderline meneacing, says: "Ya' keep your bestfriend and I get a taste of 'tis sweet pussy. Just gotta earn it"

His big calloused hands dissappear into your middle, making your thighs press together. He chuckles, parting your legs with ease. It's like your whole body has forgotten how to act on its own, so easily spreading for him.

"Atta girl"

A moan dies in your throat at the sensation of his fingers back in your pussy, rubbing the area like he knows it. Your body betrays you, you know it in the way you feel your walls clenching in anticipation at the feeling of his fingers. It's so much better than when you do it yourself, and even if your mind is against it, you can't find the pleasure that's started to sweep in through the cracks of your ressolve.

"See, baby? No use in denyin' when she's tellin' me otherwise" there's an agonizing tease in the way Joel drags the pad of his middle finger across your pussy. "Tell me, no boys back at campus to help ya'?"

"No" you begin to answer, voice hoarse.

"No what?" he asks, plunging two fingers inside of you, making you squeal. Your hand holds to his forearm, almost like an instant, nails leaving little crescents on his sunkissed skin. You can feel him smile at the pain, more at the thought of you holding to him and the feeling of more of your skin against his.

"No boys sir" you manage to choke out.

Joel lets out a rumbling growl of satisfaction at your admission, his eyes flashing with a possesive glint that makes your throat go dry.

"Good girl" he crooks his fingers, a pathetic whine that sounds like his name escaping your lips. "Makes 'tis even better. Now, lemme take real good care of ya', baby"

You suck in a gasp when he starts moving his fingers. He drags them along your cunt until he finds your sweet spot, making you squeal. Your cheeks feel hot, and when Joel notices, he chuckles.

"Don't hold 'em back, baby. You don't know how long I've been waitin' to hear all those lil' sounds outta ya" he rasps, voice rough with desire. Joel rolls your nub between his digits, your treacherous hips moving to meet his rapid movements. "Been dreamin' of 'tis day for a while" 

"An' now here ya' are, bein' so good to me" he praises. His rough fingers delve with more intensity into your soaked folds, stroking through the slick evidence of your arousal. He pumps faster, harder, plunging in and out of your soaked, clinging walls.  "Just mine"

His hand cups your jaw now, thumbing over your swollen bottom lip.

"So pretty" Joel mumbles in your ear. You part your lips as he starts fucking you faster. "Told ya', easy. Y' give, and I give ya' as well. Imma giver, baby"

He chuckles, beard scratching against your neck as he nips and sucks at your racing pulse. "So don't 'cha worry, sweetheart. I'm gonna give y' exactly what 'cha need. Just sit back and look real pretty" Joel says, feeling your walls clenching around his fingers, "which you doin' a great job on"

He adds another finger, the wet sound of your eager walls bouncing off the wall. You stil try to refrain from voicing out loud the traitorous satisfaction Joel's making you feel, but you squeal around his thumb, eyebrows tightly furrowed with how much pleasure you're getting.

"You cummin', aren't 'cha? Ya' want that, doll? Bet you do. So fucken' easy to break" you moan in desperation, body rigid no longer from abstaining but from chasing your impeding orgasm. "Look at ya', so eager, ridin' ma' fingers like a slut. I know ya' want it. So easy t' read"

Your whole body tingles, vision going white. You come all over his fingers, walls clenching as you close your eyes, nails clawing at his arms again, orgasm washing over you. As your climax crashes over you, Joel drinks in every second of your surrender, relishing the way your body became so pliant as you moan his name.

"Good girl" Joel praises as you go limp in his arms, legs trembling. He places a sweet kiss to jaw, his fingers still inside you, still moving yet slowler. "Next, 'm gonna fuck 'tis sweet cunt so hard and so deep that you'll be feelin' me for days, baby"

Joel's hand slides up to wrap around your throat, calloused fingers curling possessively around your delicate neck. "Beg for it, baby. Ya' know how to"

"Please, sir" you choke out, brain fuzzy. It's pathetic, really, but all you can think now is how bad you need him inside of you, walls throbbing in need.

He presses his thumb tighter into your throat. "Words, baby"

"Please. Too much" you whine. He removes his hand from your throbbing pussy. You shake in his arms. "I need you, Joel"

Joel's eyes carey a triumphant gleam to tengo upon hearing your desperate plea, a crooked smile twisting his rugged features. Then, he smacks right into your sensitive clit. You writhe, another whine falling off your lips.

"Told ya' to not call me that, but I can't lie and say I don't like 'da way ya' say ma' name, sweet girl" as he lets go of your neck. "I'll let it pass 'tis time"

He captures your mouth in a devouring kiss, tongue plunging past your lips to claim your lips as if he wants to make himself a home inside the warmth of your mouth. He breaks the kiss, a wicked grin breaking in his face at your disheveled state.

"C'mon, sweetheart, don't be shy now" he taunts. "I know y' got it in ya'. The way 'tis greedy body responds to me... Y'r jus' dyin' to he used, ain't 'cha?"

A pool of shame forms in the pit of your stomach. You know this is wrong, your mind fighting against it, yet, the desire that consumes your body overrides the sense your brain is begging you to have.

It's embarrassing, really, but it's almost as if Joel knows exactly what to do to numb your body, head fuzzy.

He knows.

Joel's hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back as you yelp in surprise, forcing you to meet his burning stare. "I'll take that as a yes"

He exposes the vulnerable column of your throat, attacking he flushed skin with bites for kisses, his teeth sinking into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises to bloom.

"J-Joel" you mumble, pathetic.

He yanks harder, forcing your pleading eyes to meet his predatory gaze as he looms over you, a dark grin spreading across his face. "I want to hear ya' beg f'r it, baby. Beg for my cock like the desperate, filthy slut y'are"

His other hand slides down to your thigh, gripping it tightly as he hitches your leg up around his hip, opening you wider. He licks his lips to te view: your dripping, aching core, bleeding with a wet need. All for him. 

"Jus' tell me how ya' want it, sweetheart. Tell me where you want me to fuck you first"

You close your eyes, writhing. "H-here. It hurts. Please, sir"

Tears pool in the corner of your eyes out of desperation, a treacherous one falling down your cheek. Joel lets out an amused chuckle at that, wiping it with his thumb.

"No need'a cry, baby. Imma give ya' what ya' need. Ya' know I wanna"

He withdraws his hands, reaching for that thick belt he's always wearing. The sound of his zipper bounces in the quiet room, every hair in your body rising un anticipation as he slides his pants down, taking them off.

Never, in a million years, would you imagine the sight for you to behold.

His cock, springing free of its confines: long, thick and angry at the tip. Red as your face. It slaps against his lower soft stomach, precum in display.

Joel leans down to whisper in your ear, nipping your earlobe sharply. "Can ya' feel it? All 'tis for you, baby. 'S how ya' make me feel ever since ya' first waltzed in here with y'r pretty little ass"

It slaps against your stomach, hot and heavy, length pulsing with need. You catch your breath, eyes wide.

"Don't 'cha worry, doll. It'll fit" with a crooked smile. "And I know you'll be of help"

Joel reaches down, gripping your thighs and spreading your legs wide, opening you up for him. Then, he settles between your thighs, positioning himself at your entrance.

"Now, be a good little cocksleeve and take my dick like da' good girl y'are"

A familiar pressure settles in your cunt as his tip begins to enter you, your breath catching at the stretch.

"Feels good?"

Before you can answer, with one brutal thrust, Joel slams his hips forward, burying his cock balls-deep inside your tight cunt.

"S' tight" he grits. Your vision goes blurry at the sensation of his dick stretching you, trying to adapt to his size. So you focus on his touch, the heat irradiating off his body, and the raw desire in his brown eyes. Tension turns to pleasure, where there was once pain now a delicious numbing sensation. You hate how easy your body has surrendered to him, how effortless is to feel satisfaction at his minstrations.

Joel sets a rapid pace. Brutal, punishing. His hips slam against yours, making the old bed wobble and creak. 

"Fuck, doll. Takin' my cunt so well" he sneers with pride and praise. "Look at y'r tight cunt, squeezin' it jus' right" 

His breath comes in harsh, ragged pants. His hands go over to your hips, his fingers digging into the skin, keeping you in place to meet his thrusts. On top of you, Joel Miller is a rare sight: sweaty, flushed honeyed skin and carnal eyes bleeding with a need so primal it takes your breath away. It just then hits you how much he had been holding back, how long he'd been wanting this, stalking and calculating from afar, like the most tantalizing game of cat and mouse there had ever been. It's obvious too, in the way his gaze drinks your body: pliant, soft, flushed and needy, watching your every reaction-- from the small gap between your lips and the involuntary sounds falling from your mouth, to your nails on his biceps and the way you hold to him like you're scared to fall.

"Don't 'cha worry, sweet girl. I ain't never lettin' you go"

He angles his hips, slamming his cock, trying to find your sweet spot deep inside your tight walls with every thrust, determined to make you fall apart in a sweet plea. Joel's really trying, tiredly resting his head near your shoulder, breath warm against your skin. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back to ground yourself. The room is filled with the sounds of his grunts and your moans. It's like outside his bedroom walls, the world is nothing but everything happening on Joel Miller's bed.

"That's it, baby" he whispers, a silent reverence in his voice. You whimper at the pleasure. "You're perfect. Jus' like 'tis"

"It's too much, sir" as you shift beneath him with a trembling voice, drunk in pleasure.

Joel's hands find yours, and with a newfound softness, his fingers intertwine with yours to steady you as he stares down at your tear-streaked face, blood pumping to his cock at the sight of the fat tears streaming down your cheeks.

"S'okay. Relax and lemme handle all'at"

When you instinctively tighten around him, his thrusts become more erratic, his balls slapping against your ass as he chases his release.

"If ya' keep that up, I might not last any longer" you meet his gaze, flush rising to your cheeks, breath coming out in short, desperate gasps as the pleasure builds. "That's right, I'm gonna fuckin' give this pussy exactly what she needs. Jus' focus on me, doll"

"M' close-" you manage to croak out. "I-"

Joel's voice is rough when he speaks. "Then don't hold back"

The pace frantic, a sloppy mess as you both chase your release. It's crazy how your bodies meet in perfect sync, like made to be. With a groan and a cry for your name, Joel slams his hips forward one last time, burying his throbbing cock to the hilt inside your dripping sex as he comes, flooding your walls with his hot, thick seed.

Joel collapses on top of you as he catches his breath, his softening cock still buried deep inside your cunt. "No need'a cry because 's over, baby" he rumbles, his voice a hoarse growl against your neck. "We can always have a round two"

He licks the tears that have escaped your eyes after your orgasm, and while your brain is still fuzzy, trying to grasp the stakes and problems to arise in between the numbness of your orgasm, you hear him say:

"'Sides, a little sweet dove left some cookies downstairs. In case ya' wanna charge those batteries of yours"

You learn to walk on eggshells made of glass, to make yourself smaller, quieter, better. You learn to anticipate his critiques before they leave his thin, cruel mouth. The way you hold the scythe. The way you breathe. The very fact of your existence in his orbit is, apparently, a personal affront.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re on your best behavior. You will be the most meticulous, the most invisible, the most grateful little reaper he’s ever deigned to tolerate. You are not going back. The memory of that place, the endless, shrieking dark, is a physical ache in your bones. You are not going back. Then comes this soul. A panicked, fluttering thing that catches a whisper of the living world and bolts like a startled deer. One second it’s there, the next it’s just a ripple in the air, a faint, mocking laugh on the wind. Your blood, what passes for it now, turns to ice. Your lungs seize. All you can see is Joonggil’s face. The slow, deliberate way he would dissect your failure. The verdict. Incompetent. Damaged. Hell-bound. No. You spend an eternity in a few frantic minutes, chasing shadows through the thinning veil. You can’t fail. You won’t. The desperation is a hot, frantic pulse behind your eyes.

And then you feel it. That shift in the atmosphere. A pressure drop, like before a storm. The air itself seems to curdle. He’s here. You freeze, your back to him, every muscle locked. You force your hands behind you, a pathetic attempt at hiding your trembling, at looking casual. You turn, and there he is, a monolith of judgment against the grey. “What are you doing?” His voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It sinks into you, a hook in your chest. “No… nothing.” The strut is a lie. You’re a marionette with tangled strings. His head cocks, a predator’s curiosity. His eyes drop to your hidden hands. “What do you have behind your back?” He takes a step closer. Then another. The space between you feels like the edge of a cliff. You open your mouth, a pathetic, pre-rehearsed lie dying on your tongue.

His phone chimes. The sound is obscenely cheerful in the heavy silence. He pulls it out, his gaze never quite leaving you. You watch his face as he reads the screen. You don’t need to see the notice. You know. Runaway soul. Escort: You. His eyes snap to yours. They are flat. Absolutely dead. You don’t think. You just go. A violent wrench of will, a twist of your newly-granted power, and you’re gone, teleporting blindly, anywhere away from that look. But he is better. He is always better. He is there before you’ve even fully landed, his hand closing around your arm, a manacle of cold fury. He yanks you back. “What,” he says, his voice dropping to something even more terrifying, a low, intimate growl, “is going on?”

The story spills out of you. The soul’s panic, your failure, your terror. You leave out the part about fearing him, about fearing hell, but it hangs in the air between you anyway, a stench you can’t hide. When you’re done, he releases your arm. You stumble back, cradling it. He just looks at you. A long, slow inventory of your worthlessness. “You know what happens when this happens,” he says finally. His eyes are lit with something that might be satisfaction. He has you. The little hell-spawn finally tripped. He can send you back. He can be rid of the stain. “Please.” The word is ripped from you, raw and ugly. You hate the sound of it. “Please help me. I swear, this will never—I’ll do anything. It won’t happen again.”

He watches you beg. He drinks it in. Then, with a flicker of contempt, he turns his face away, dismissing you. “And why should I help you?” He starts to walk. He is leaving you. He is leaving you to your fate. You can feel the heat of hell licking at your heels. “I’ll sign it!” you scream. Your voice cracks. “I’ll sign a reaper’s guarantee of responsibility!”  His neck snaps toward you. The movement is too fast, too avian. For the first time, a flicker of something else crosses his face. Not pity. Never pity. But interest. A cold, covetous gleam in his eye. He turns back, slowly, fully. He takes a step toward you. Then another. He doesn’t stop until he’s close enough that you can feel the chill radiating from him, until his face is inches from yours. He tilts his head, studying you like a new, particularly useful species of insect.

“A guarantee,” he repeats, the words a silken threat. He reaches out, and with one cold finger, traces the line of your jaw. It takes every ounce of your will not to flinch. “That is… an interesting offer.”

He doesn’t look at you like you’re saved. He looks at you like he just found the perfect place to drive the knife. And you know, with a sickening lurch, that you haven’t escaped him. You’ve just signed your name on the dotted line of your own undoing.

You think it's over. You think the begging, the pleading, the utter degradation of offering your very soul on a silver platter, you think that was the worst part. You are so naive. He teleports you both to his office. Not your shared workspace, not some neutral ground. His office. The walls are the color of old bone, and the air smells like paperwork and secrets. And there, on his desk, pristine and waiting, is the cotract. It wasn't conjured. It wasn't summoned. It was already there, lying in wait like a spider in the center of its web. "Sign," he says. Not a question. Not an invitation. You reach for it, your hand trembling, and his voice stops you cold.

"You know what this entails, correct?" You look up. He's watching you with that same flat, dead-eyed interest from before. A scientist observing a specimen. You swallow. "Yes, sir. I do." "Explain it to me." He gestures lazily at the paper. "What is this?" You want to scream. You want to throw the paper in his face and run. But the alternative was hell, the real hell, the one you remember in your blood is worse. So you play his game. "It's a reaper's guarantee of responsibility." He sits. Slowly. Deliberately. He leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of bored authority. "And what does that mean?"

You hate him. You hate him with a purity that feels holy. But you answer. "It means... the reaper who asked for help has to do anything the reaper who is helping asks of them. Anything." His eyes never leave your face. He's cataloging every micro-expression, every flicker of fear, every bead of sweat you don't actually have but somehow still produce. "Good. Very good." He signs his name with a flourish Park Joonggil, sharp and final then slides the paper across the desk toward you. "Your turn." You pause. The pen is cold in your hand. The paper waits, blank and hungry beneath your signature line. Every instinct you have is screaming. Don't. Don't. Don't.

But you have no other options. You sign. The moment the pen leaves the paper, he smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of a man who just watched you swallow the poison he handed you, thinking it was medicine. Then he's gone a ripple in the air, a faint displacement of atoms, and you're alone in his bone-white office with your signature bleeding into the contract. You stand there for what feels like hours. Minutes. A lifetime.  Then he's back. Just appears, right in front of you, and you jump like a startled animal.

"It's done," he says. "What?" Your voice is too high, too fast. "What's done? The soul—you found it? You brought it back?" He tilts his head. That predator's curiosity again. Then he moves. He rises from wherever he was standing and walks toward you. Each step a drumbeat. Each step a countdown. You back up. Your spine hits the wall. "Well," he says, and his voice is soft now, almost gentle, the way a cat's paw is soft just before the claws come out, "I might have been the one to let that soul go in the first place. When you weren't paying attention."

The words don't make sense. They can't make sense. You stare at him, your mouth opening and closing, a fish gasping on dry land. "Why," you finally manage. It comes out broken. "Why would you do that?" He stops. Inches from you now. Close enough that you can see the flecks of something dark in his otherwise empty eyes. Close enough that his breath, cold as a winter grave, ghosts across your face. "Because," he says, and he reaches up, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your skin crawl, "I needed a way for you to sign that contract."

The world tilts. You feel it the floor dropping out from under you, the walls closing in. It was a setup. It was all a setup. The runaway soul, your panic, your desperate pleading, your offer of the guarantee and he orchestrated every second of it. "You," you whisper. "You planned this."

"Of course I did." He says it like it's obvious. Like you're an idiot for not seeing it sooner. His hand moves from your hair to your chin, gripping hard enough to force you to look at him. "Do you have any idea how long I've waited for a way to make you useful? Hell-spawn, foisted on me like I'm some kind of charity worker, expected to train you, to mold you, to waste my time on something that should have been left to rot in the flames." He leans closer. His nose almost touches yours.

"And now," he breathes, "you belong to me. Anything I ask. Remember?" You can't speak. You can't move. You can't even cry. He smiles again. That same smile. The poison. The trap. The spider, finally wrapping its prize. "Welcome to the team," he says. And then he's gone again, leaving you pressed against the wall of his office, the contract still sitting on his desk, your signature still wet, and the terrible, crushing weight of what you've just done settling over you like a shroud. You are not going back to hell. You are going somewhere much, much worse.

You think the contract was the worst of it. You think signing your freedom away, watching his smile curl like smoke from a fresh lit flame and you think that was the moment you hit bottom. You don't know what bottom is yet. But you're about to learn. The next weeks are a masterclass in destruction. He keeps you close now, always hovering at your shoulder during escorts, his presence a cold burn against your back. And every mistake the ones you make, the ones you don't, the ones he manufactures in the space between one breath and the next he pounces.

"You call that a transition?" His voice cuts through the silence of a funeral procession, loud enough for everyone to hear. The other reapers glance at you, then away. Always away. "Pathetic. Even hell's rejects should manage that much." In front of everyone. Every single time. He waits until there's an audience, until the other reapers are close enough to witness your humiliation, and then he unleashes. Your grip on the scythe is wrong. Your posture is wrong. Your face is wrong, you exist wrong, you breathe wrong. He finds the fault because he is looking for it, because he has made it his mission to find it, because the contract gave him permission to own you and he intends to collect every penny of that debt.

The others learn quickly. They stop meeting your eyes. They stop sitting near you during breaks. You become a ghost among reapers, invisible and untouchable, and every night you go back to whatever corner you've claimed and you tell yourself it's still better than hell. You are lying and you are starting to know it. The last soul of the day is a quiet one, an old woman who goes peacefully, almost gratefully. You're guiding her toward the light when you hear him behind you, his voice low and casual as he tells your co-worker to wrap it up. Then his hand is on your arm. Cold. Inescapable.

His office. Again. The bone-white walls, the desk where your signature still feels fresh, the couch you've never sat on because you've never been invited. "Sit," he says. You sit. He doesn't join you. He leans against his desk, arms crossed, watching you with that same flat, cataloging gaze. The silence stretches. You learn new ways to be afraid in those seconds. "Strip." The word doesn't register at first. It hangs in the air between you, a foreign object, something that can't possibly mean what it sounds like. "What?" His eyes don't leave your face. "Strip. Now."

You're on your feet before you decide to move, fury and fear tangling into something that feels like fire. "You are insane—" You're already turning, already reaching for the thread of power that will pull you out of this room, out of his sight, out of this nightmare "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

His voice is soft. Almost kind. It stops you cold. You turn back. He's smiling. 

He walks toward you, slow and easy, a predator who knows his prey has nowhere left to run. "Unless, of course, you'd like to find yourself back in hell." He tilts his head, considering. "I hear the welcome committee misses you." Your power dies in your chest. Your hand falls to your side. He walks past you, his shoulder brushing yours and sits on the couch. The one you just vacated. He settles in, making himself comfortable, and then he looks at you.

You're standing with your back to him. You can feel his eyes on you. On your ass. On the curve of your spine. On every inch of you that he now owns. "Come on," he says, and there's amusement in his voice now, a chuckle he tries to hide behind his hand. "It's not that hard. You've done this before, surely. Stripping. Begging. Being useful." The word drips with contempt. "Or was hell all fire and no fun?" You turn.

Your hands go to the buttons of your shirt. One by one. The fabric parts, slides from your shoulders, puddles on the floor. You're wearing black lace beneath it not because you planned this, not because you wanted this, but because it was Tuesday and it was clean and now it feels like a joke the universe is playing on you. His eyes don't move from your body.

You step out of your pants. Black, matching your bra. You stand in the center of his office in nothing but lace and humiliation, and you try to cross your arms, try to cover yourself, try to hold onto some shred of dignity "Hands at your sides." The command is quiet. Absolute. Your arms fall.

He pours himself a drink. Whiskey, amber, swirling in a crystal glass. He takes a sip, and his eyes never stop moving over your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your hip, the place between your thighs that you're desperately trying not to think about. He's memorizing you. Imprinting you. Filing you away in whatever dark cabinet he keeps his trophies. He leans back. Crosses his legs. Takes another sip.

The silence is a living thing. It crawls over your skin, into your lungs, behind your eyes. You can hear your own heartbeat. You can hear the ice shifting in his glass. You can hear everything and nothing and all of it is terrible. He waves his hand. A lazy gesture, like he's dismissing a servant. "Take the rest off." Your fingers don't want to move. They're numb, frozen, someone else's hands entirely. But they reach behind you anyway, because the alternative is hell, because the alternative is worse, because you signed your name on a piece of paper and now you belong to him.

The bra falls. You step out of your underwear. You stand naked in front of Park Joonggil, and he looks at you like you're a painting he's considering buying. Like you're a meal he's deciding whether to eat. Like you're nothing and everything and all of it belongs to him. "Good," he says finally. He takes another sip of his whiskey. "Now. Let's discuss what anything really means."

And you understand, with a clarity that feels like being split open, that this is only the beginning. That he will never stop. That he will find new ways to take from you, new pieces of you to claim, new humiliations to catalog and savor. That the contract wasn't the trap. The trap was ever thinking you could escape him at all.

You think you understand what it means to be owned. You think the standing, the stripping, the way his eyes crawled over your naked skin like ants over something dead you think that was the lesson. He's about to teach you the rest. He settles back against the couch, whiskey in hand, and he tells you his plans. Not all of them he's not stupid enough to show his whole hand but enough. Enough for you to understand that this wasn't about one night. This wasn't about one humiliation. This is forever. This is the rest of your existence, however long that may be, stretched out before you like a road made of glass and you're barefoot.

"And if you don't listen," he says, swirling the amber liquid, watching it catch the light, "if you fail to comply..." He looks up at you then, and his smile is soft, almost gentle. "Well. You remember hell, don't you, darling? The heat. The screaming. The way it feels when your skin burn but it just keeps burning, forever, because that's the point, isn't it? Forever." Your throat closes. He pats his lap. Uncrosses his legs. Places his drink on the table. "Come sit."

The command is casual. Friendly, even. Like he's inviting you to join him for coffee. You move. What choice do you have? Your feet carry you across the space between you, each step slower than the last, each heartbeat a small death. You reach him. You turn your back to him instinct, modesty, some pathetic attempt at preserving something and you start to lower yourself onto his lap. His hands stop you. Turn you. Arrange you like a doll.

You're straddling him now. Facing him. Your knees on either side of his thighs, your naked body inches from his clothed one, your face near enough to feel his breath. Whiskey and something underneath something dark and hungry. Your hands go to his chest. Not because you want to touch him. Because you need distance. Because if you don't push against something you'll collapse into nothing. He doesn't allow distance.

His hand closes around the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, and he pulls you forward. His mouth crashes into yours. It's not a kiss, it's consumption. He kisses like he's starving, like you're water and he's been in the desert for years, like he wants to crawl inside you and live there. His tongue, his teeth, his breath flooding your lungs and you bite him.

Hard. You taste blood, copper and salt, and you think yes, yes, finally something, finally I hurt him back His grip doesn't loosen. If anything, it tightens. He holds you there, your teeth still in his lip, and when he finally pulls away it's slow. Deliberate. A string of saliva and blood still connects you, stretching, thinning, finally breaking. His lip is red. Split. He laughs.

It's a low sound, rumbling in his chest, and you feel it through your palms where they still press against him. He laughs, and his eyes are wild now, the flat deadness replaced by something alive and terrible. And then you feel it. Beneath you. Against you. Between your thighs.

He's hard. He's hard, and you're naked, and you're straddling him, and he's hard and you can feel every inch of him through his pants and you look down..you don't mean to, you don't, but your body betrays you and you look. He grabs your waist. Grinds you against him.

The friction is electric. Wrong. You feel yourself react..your body, that traitor, that animal and you feel yourself get wet, feel the heat pool between your legs, and he feels it too, feels the evidence of your betrayal against his straining dick. "Shit." His voice is different now. Lower. Rougher. "Fuck. Damn."

His hands leave your waist. You hear the sound of a zipper. Feel him shift beneath you. And skin. Hot skin against yours, his dick freed from his pants, pressing against you, finding you, positioning itself at your entrance. "Wait—" The word is small. Pathetic. He doesn't hear it. Doesn't want to hear it. He pushes in.

The stretch is too much. You gasp or maybe you scream, you're not sure anymore. He throws his head back, his carefully styled hair falling across his forehead, covering his eyes, making him look like someone else entirely. Someone undone. Someone feral. "Fuck." He looks down. Between you. Watches himself slide into you, out of you, into you again. Watches where you're joined, where he's taking what belongs to him now.

"This," he says, and his voice has dropped even lower, deadly and dark, "is the tightest cunt I've ever had." His hands on your waist. Gripping. Bruising. You'll have finger-shaped marks tomorrow, purple and black, souvenirs of this moment. He moves you on him, uses you, your body a thing he's operating, a tool he's finally found a use for.

"You gonna take what I'm about to give?" His voice is dark, wet, a whine wrapped in silk. He bites his lip, and the sight of it the sight of him enjoying this, enjoying you makes something in your stomach twist. He slams you down onto him. Harder. Again. His hands on your waist, controlling the rhythm, controlling you, and you can't help it, you can't stop it, your body tightens around him without permission, without thought, just pure animal response to the friction and the heat and the terrible, shameful pleasure that's building low in your belly.

You're close. God help you, you're close. "Joonggil—" He stops moving. Just stops. Looks up at you with those flat, dead eyes that are suddenly very, very alive. "You call me sir." The words are a lash. You feel them on your skin. "Sir," you breathe. "Sir, I'm—I'm cumming." Your forehead falls against his neck. You can't look at him. Can't see whatever's in his eyes while your body betrays you, while you shatter around him, while you prove everything he's ever thought about you.

He chuckles. The vibration of it travels through his chest, into yours. "Knew it," he murmurs against your ear. "Knew you liked being fucked like a little whore. Shit—I'm close—" His mouth is on your chest. Teeth, tongue, suction he's leaving marks, painting you, claiming every inch of skin he can reach. You'll wear these bruises tomorrow. You'll wear them for weeks. You'll wear them forever, probably, because nothing about Park Joonggil has ever been temporary.

"Shit, I'm cumming—take it, take it—" You feel him spill inside you. Feel his body tense and release. Feel his hands grip your waist so hard there will be fingerprints there too, purple and black, his signature on your flesh. Then it's over. He leans back. His hands leave your waist. For one horrible moment you're just perched there, on his lap, on his couch, in his office, naked and empty and utterly lost.

Then he grabs you by the hair. He yanks you back not gently, just yanks until your face is inches from his, until you're staring into those eyes that have never once looked at you like a person. "This," he says, tapping your cheek with his free hand, "is where you belong. And this—" he shifts beneath you, makes you feel him still inside you, still softening, "—is mine. This cunt is mine. Do you understand?" You nod. Or try to. His grip on your hair doesn't allow for much movement.

"Yes," you whisper. His eyes narrow. "Yes what?" The word catches in your throat. Sticks there like glass. But you swallow, and you say it, "Yes, sir." He smiles.  "Good girl," he says, and the backhanded praise is worse than any insult, because it means he's pleased, and if he's pleased he'll keep you, and if he keeps you this will happen again and again and again until there's nothing left of you but a raw, trembling thing that exists only to say yes sir when he tells you what you are.

He releases your hair. You slump against him, too weak to move, too broken to care. "See?" His voice is almost gentle now. Almost kind. He strokes your back like you're a pet he's just finished training. "That wasn't so hard. You just needed someone to show you your place." You don't respond. You can't.

"And here I thought hell-spawn were supposed to be difficult." Another stroke down your spine. "Turns out you're just like all the others. Desperate for approval. Desperate to be good at something." His lips brush your temple. "Even if that something is this." The tears come then. Silent. Betraying. They slide down your cheeks and drip onto his chest, and he doesn't wipe them away, doesn't acknowledge them at all, because your tears are just more proof. More evidence. Another fault for him to witness.

"There it is," he murmurs. "Crying on my chest after I fuck you. Sweet thing." He tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. "Don't worry. You'll get used to it." You just sit there, naked and used and crying, while Park Joonggil strokes your hair and tells you what a good girl you are, what a perfect little whore, what a treasure it is to have finally broken you in.

And you…you sit there, straddling your nightmare, and you realize that this is what he wanted all along. Not just the contract. Not just your humiliation. You. All of you. Every inch. Every secret place. Every part you thought you could keep for yourself. He owns it now. He owns all of it.

“how foolish. don’t you understand what i am?” he narrowed his eyes, hands gripping just a bit tighter as he commented. if he put any more force, he’d break you.

“i-i… i don’t.”

“i’ll make you, then.”

he hated how simple-minded you were. just laying there, taking his cock without a second thought. like you were made to do this. you had no idea of what he could do to you—and yet you surrendered yourself to his mercy. were all humans this naive or was it just you?

hell, you even took comfort from a beast like him—one, that was wrecking the most sacred place between heaven and hell. even though he's killed thousands, he's never understood what humans were like. maybe he could figure it out through you.

sukuna continued pounding relentlessly, burying himself between your parted thighs without care and selfishly using your flesh. if he went any deeper, you think he would reach your heart.

"s-sukuna... fuck, please!—" you yelped, gripping onto the thin sheets beneath you as a lifeline.

and yet he continued, abusing your pussy like a toy.

his first pair of hands on your waist moved to your neck. one gripped the front, the other on your nape, fingers delicately pressing your throat. sukuna squeezed, ever so slightly and it took the air out of your lungs.

your eyes boldly looked up at him, an unreadable expression in his face as he devoured you. was it disdain? boredom?

pleasure?

he released his grip, unconsciously licking his lips at the comically large bruise on your neck. the broken capillaries branded your skin. he did this to you. you squeeze around him as he fucked you good, your squelching noises filling the tension as his eyes glossed over your figure.

sukuna inched even closer, the mouth on his stomach able to lick up your sweat, covering you with saliva. your eyes uncontrollably met with his blood red ones. you felt watched.

"you call this sex?" he murmured.

his gaze lingered, heavy, assessing the state he put you in.

"this is what humans cling to?"

a pause.

"...pathetic." and yet, he didn't stop. he went even faster, roughly fucking your body to seek some form of answer he couldn't begin to grasp. sukuna drilled your body through sheer force, hoping to understand what this even is. "k-kuna... kuna—" you whimpered meekly, drool escaping your lips as your eyes rolled back like a corpse.

"look at you, baring yourself so vulgarly. do you have no shame?" he muses, continuing to fuck you mercilessly while relishing in the expression you hold.

at this point you swore you could see stars, fuck, probably the cusp of death itself. sukuna fucked you like had a reason to live, or a reason to die. it was all-consuming. your senses were all fucked up, constantly getting overstimulated by his mouths, hands, and cocks.

there was no body part that was untouched—or unviolated by the hands of your decider above you. you could feel that burning shame build up in you, attempting to release itself on his cock and you cry out to him.

“g-gonna cum… pleasee! i’m gonna oh—“ you helplessly yell, the thick walls of his residence hushing your plea.

you come apart without permission, yet a small grunt escapes sukuna’s lips as your cum seeps out, covering his thick member with the leftover cum you had from before. he hisses lowly, like a silent vibration buzzing against your skin.

covered in all types of fluids, sukuna licks it up instinctively, the rush of blood ringing in his ears. you’re so warm. so human.

so fucking delicious.

sukuna can’t help but get a taste, swallowing the remnants of your orgasm like it’s a heian delicacy. “there it is…” he softly murmurs. his deep voice spreads goosebumps in the warm air, your arm extending to his chest, grazing the tough skin.

“you’d let me take everything, wouldn’t you?” he says it like he knows the answer, and you nod—mindlessly, submitting yourself to his hypnotizing words.

it’s absurd how you let him consume you without an inch of doubt. most people would beg for their lives by now, but here you are—serving yourself on a silver platter. merely covered in substances he brought out of you. he didn’t have to force you.

you were a well trained meal, and he wanted a taste.

sukuna inches closer now, centimetres away. his large tongue quickly devours your lips once again, your state of mind somewhere far away, only pleasure coursing through your veins. his teeth nip you, blood dripping down your lips and like a shark to water, he laps it up—desperate and hungry.

his cock still warms you up, with no desire to move. your cum dries on your thighs, and his hands continue to hold your body with a tight grip, groping your breasts as he continued to feast.

sukuna sinks his teeth in your neck when he angles his face, ecstasy flowing into his tastebuds once he gets your metallic liquid swallowed.

“to be reduced to this…” he chuckles, drinking you up.

“…not bad.” continuing to eat you, a piece of your fatty skin melts in his bottomless stomach. your body squirms from the numbed pain, breaking the silence. “mmph…” it’s a soft, tender whimper, like the act of tasting you is so intimate that it escapes from your cherry rims. it’s the closest thing he’ll ever get to such a thing.

a piece of you missing—now belonging to him.

“look at you.”

he echoes, parting from your body, the blood staining your skin like dye. it’s fresh. so different from your arousal. his cocks twitch again, and he wants to devour you.

“that’s your answer.”

do you understand, now?

StepBro! Satoru who leans he’s soon going to be having a new sister after his father remarries the mistress who shattered his family

StepBro! Satoru who seethes at the thought of having to share with some sluts bastard child

StepBro! Satoru who builds up resentment towards you before meeting you just to have it all disappear upon meeting you in person

StepBro! Satoru who no longer resents his father for remarrying but is grateful for him bringing home a new toy

StepBro! Satoru who offers to help set up your new bedroom but instead is hides hidden cameras in multiple areas of your room.

Clueless you who would never think that the smoke detector on your ceiling could be anything insidious nor do you ever question the plugs on your walls, sure they look slightly different from the ones in the common areas but you pay it no mind.

Clueless you who thinks locking your door grants you the privacy to undress or the privacy to slide your hand between your legs and rub circles on your clit while muffling your cute whimpers.

StepBro! Satoru who goes through the footage of you in your room every night, his right hand on the mouse and his left gripping his hard cock

He takes screenshots of your body, sharing them with his friend Suguru, showing off that he got a “hot stepsis” and sleezy Suguru who just loves to get off to naive cute girls like yourself, hoping he gets a turn after Satoru gets his hands on you

It wasn’t much longer before he did get his hands on you. It was during the winter, your parents left for vacation and to Satoru’s convenience, you got sick and had to stay home in bed whilst he was left to care for you.

He made sure you got all the supplements and medicine prescribed and then some. Maybe he did add a sleeping pill into the mix every now and then. Maybe he did take advantage of your unconscious figure each time you passed out.

He would take your limp hand into his and stroke his hard leaking girth with it. Chills crawled up his spine as he felt your soft fingers graze the veins decorating his shaft. He wrapped his hand around yours, and begin stroking himself with a tight grip.

While your breathing remained slow and even paced his started to speed up, the excitement of his hot sister touching his cock turned him in so much but the smug pride he feels for taking advantage of your unconscious form is what’s making his eyes roll back.

As his hips begin to pick up speed he began to pant and worry less about remaining quiet. What does it matter if you wake, you can’t beat him, especially not in your current state. You were so sick you could barely feed yourself. You probably got sick on purpose, desperate for your big brother Satoru’s attention.

Sure he could have any girl he wanted but all he wanted right now is to conquer you.

He grew sick of using your hand and wanted something more, something wet, something tight. He dropped your hand and it limply fell, hanging off the side of the bed, letting the cool night air dry off the precum that dripped down the palm of your hand.

The bed started to sink as he began to crawl on top of you. His legs straddling your weak body as you foolishly slept without a clue of the danger you were in.

He hunched his body forward and pushed his lips against yours, his tongue grazing your bottom lip before sitting back up onto his haunches and scooting further up your body. At this point his legs were on either side of your shoulders, he caressed your face, dragging his hand from your temple to yours chin, gently pulling your mouth open. He slid just the tip of his length between your lips, enjoying the sensation of your tongue instinctively rubbing itself against his mushroom head.

He began to tilt his hips further as more and more of his length slid into your mouth. When he felt his dick hit the back of your throat he heard you gag, and briefly worried about you waking up. But all you did was twist up your face and continue to sleep. So he felt more comfortable to push himself further and deeper. Once he was so deep he could feel your throat grip his cock as it tried to dislodge the obstruction. You started to gag more but he kept slowly rocking his hips back and forth barely giving you time to breathe.

Your lashes began to flutter as your eyes struggled to open, unable to process whats in front of them. You don’t quite know it yet but what you’re staring at is your step brothers lower abdomen, what you feel tickling your nose is his bluntly shaved pubic hair brushing against your upper lip and nose every time he thrust forward.

Your struggle to breathe jolts you awake, and you immediately grip at his thighs to stop him from moving, but your sleepy weak body is no match for him, satoru is too lost chasing his own orgasm to care that you’re awake, to care that he might be hurting you, ignoring your hands squeezing against his thighs he simply interlocks his fingers in the back of your head and holds you in place so he can continue abusing your throat over and over again. Every time you tries to scream your voice would cause vibrations along his length sending him over the edge.

He tightly gripped your hair and pushed your face against his pelvis as he pumped load after load down your throat. With his dick shoved so far down your throat you had no choice but to swallow it all like the good girl you are.

When he climbed from on top of you, your lungs immediately fought to get back the air they lost. You heaved and coughed regurgitating some of his several loads of cum before you were able to breathe normal again.